In The Eye Of The Storm
by seriousish
Summary: What if Alex had been there when Nikita needed her most? Nalex


Nikita wandered into the cockpit like a drunk returning to their favorite watering hole. It was the only solace she had from the rest of the plane. That poisonous declaration was still echoing in her head. "I'm done fighting for _us." _She could hear it all through the plane.

Nikita much preferred the clouds. Ryan seemed much the same way. At least flying the plane got him a little ways away from his conspiracy theories. "Want a lesson?"

"Nah. That'd just take the mystery out of it. Where to now?"

"Alex. She's canceled her vacation to Gitmo, so it's time to regroup."

"Family reunion," Nikita said approvingly. She smiled. It was good news. The best news. But she still thought about Michael.

_I'm done fighting for us._ The worst part of that sentence was that she'd seen it coming. How many years had she expected it while he promised not to give up on her? And when she'd almost believed him, when she'd agreed to be his _wife, _he'd finally seen her. Drugaddictcopkillerassassinwhore. And he'd run. Just because Nikita had known it was coming didn't mean it hurt any less. It hurt, every time.

* * *

They landed in the middle of the night. No sooner had the plane come to a stop then Alex was hustled onboard like a passing dream. Nikita hung back while Alex crisply accepted the others' relief at her escape. She could feel the frayed edges between herself and Michael; they kept glancing at each other like you would tongue a cut on the roof of your mouth. If Michael didn't want to see her, she could only imagine how Alex felt. Alex, who'd suffered more than any of them, and all for Nikita. Because of Nikita.

Still, when prompted, Nikita couldn't help but clench Alex's small hand in both of hers, feeling the calluses she'd put there through hours of training, and give her the smile she thought Alex had lived for, once. But there was no time for celebration, as always. Onto Beirut. More schemes of Amanda's to foil, more hits to take, more days to spend under the gun. Nikita went to her bunk to try to sleep, though she knew she'd spend more time wishing she was back on the needle—at least back then she could close her eyes and keep them shut without seeing blood and regret.

On her way through the night-dark airplane, Alex leaned out of the open door to her bunk. "Hey Nikita, got a minute?"

"For you, always." Nikita stepped into Alex's cabin and had the door shut behind her. Alex's space was as small as anyone else's, a four by four box that was half bed, but Nikita was glad to see some of Alex's personality shining through. There was a German expressionist painting leaning against the wall and a Givenchy dress hanging off the back of the door. "What's up?"

Alex gave a little sway. "What's up with you?"

Nikita leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Alex, come on. You were interrogated in a CIA blacksite."

Alex stayed where she stood like she didn't care how close it put her to Nikita in the cramped room. "Loud music and a few needles. I've been to worse parties. What about you? You've hardly said two words to me since I got back and you look at Michael like you gave him a disease."

Nikita shook her head. "Diseases can be cured."

"Niki, _please," _Alex said, her eyes pleading even more than her words.

Nikita tightened her fingers on her arms until the pain of her pinched skin was all she could feel. "Michael and I broke up."

And Alex just shook her head. "No, no way, not you two—"

"Well, I guess we've been broken up since I left him. I just finally realized it now." Nikita smiled at Alex too ruefully. "I've always been the kinda girl who needs these things explained to her."

The step Alex took closer sent echoes rebounding through the small room. "But you and Michael—God! You're like Romeo and Juliet, you know?"

"Things didn't work out so well for them either."

Alex threw up her hands. "How can someone just _stop _loving you? Are you sure he doesn't just want some space, like with Max?"

Nikita closed her eyes as the remembered words took another bite out of her heart. "He said he didn't want to fight for me anymore." Opened her eyes to find Alex looking like she would beat Michael into taking Nikita back. "And I don't blame him."

Alex tried to pace angrily, but it was more like turning around repeatedly in the small room. It would've almost been funny if Nikita didn't feel the same way. "How many times did he promise to stay with you—he must've sworn a thousand times."

"Promises are only as good as the people they're placed in," Nikita argued. She didn't know if she even loved Michael, not now that the scales of a happy ending had fallen from her eyes, but all their years together compelled her to defend him. "I promised him a life together. When have we lived? We've just been… surviving." Nikita's eyes went downcast. "He's not like us, Alex. He could've walked away. He stayed because of me, and I promised him it would be over someday. Instead I just kept getting him in deeper." She looked at Alex. "I promised you too."

"You don't have to apologize for…" Alex looked up, "this fucking plane. It's the Shop and Amanda that got us into this, not you."

"We can't blame the exit strategy not working on them when we never had one." Nikita slid her head back, touching it to the bulkhead. "I just wanted to make everything right. No, not everything. Just the mess I made."

"Division wasn't your fault either."

"Someone has to take responsibility for it."

"But why is that always _you_?"

Nikita smiled. "What Michael wanted to know."

Alex reached out and took Nikita's hand, pulling it out of her self-hug. "You know you're not alone, right? Even if he won't fight for you, I will. I'll _always_ fight for you, because I know you'll always fighting for me."

Alex barely had to tug on Nikita's arm to have her in an embrace, the taller woman enclosing Alex like she needed all of the devotion that was radiating off Alex's very skin. But she let go quickly, dropping Alex's arms and going to the door.

"Hey!" Alex pressed her hand to the doorknob, holding it closed. "Where are you going?"

"Bed. I shouldn't have burdened you with this. It's not really your business."

"Of course it's my business," Alex replied, pouting. "Nikita, _look at you. _You're skin and bones, I can see a half-dozen new scars on you, and your eyes, they're just—it's like I can see you in there, but you won't come out."

"You don't have to worry about me."

"Don't I? Without Michael, who's taking care of you?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Nikita, sit down." When Nikita looked around sardonically, making a point of the room's barrenness, Alex jerked her head. "On the bed, smartass."

Obediently, Nikita seated herself, shoulders rounded, hands locked in her lap.

"Look at you. Look at you." Alex knelt before her, taking her hands once more. The knuckles were scarred. "You know, even if she tried, I bet Amanda couldn't think up a worse way to torture you than this. Three months on your own, no way to tell the people you love that you're okay, or for you to know if they are. No smiles, no one to touch, no one to watch your back. You're like the sun, Nikita. You belong to the world. You should be warming people, lighting them up, not… hidden in the shadows like something shameful. You're so warm and so bright and… and I need you. Even if Michael doesn't."

Nikita tried for a smile, only managed a weak one. "You're sweet."

"You made me that way. C'mon, stay with me. I'll bribe you."

Nikita's smile grew. "With what? I already have guns. What more could a girl ask for?"

"Wine!_" _Alex practically cheered, opening up her footlocker. There was a bottle of 2010 Poliziano Vino Nobile di Montepulciano nestled among the knives, grenades, and lingerie. She hoisted the black bottle.

Nikita laughed. "Don't suppose you have some red meat to go with it."

"Alas, when we were buying planes, they were all out of the ones with meat lockers." Alex lowered her head demurely as Nikita lovingly patted her on the scalp. "There is one problem though," she said, looking up.

"What's that?"

"Now that I'm of age, you have to share."

Nikita felt what had to be a genuine smile as she called their first years together, plotting Division's downfall and practicing their skills—Nikita so worried about Alex relapsing that she wouldn't let her go undercover as a smoker, or drink a bottle of beer after a long day. Their safe house was supplied with MREs, ammo, and fruit juice.

Alex summoned up some Dixie cups and poured for them. Nikita quickly fell herself becoming sullen once more—even Alex couldn't keep the words from ricocheting through her skull. They'd changed. Now they were _you're not worth fighting for, _and that too was hard to argue with. She was destined to be a sad drunk.

Alex handed her the bottle, to refill for both of them, and climbed behind Nikita on the bed. Grabbing up a comb, she began assiduously brushing Nikita's hair. "How long's it been since you ran a comb through this, huh?"

"Too long," Nikita admitted. With the president dead and half the country on her tail, she'd gotten used to just letting her hair drip dry. It felt soothing, the brief touch of the bristles on her scalp and then the long slide down her mane. She remembered her foster mother doing the same—before the alcohol, the abuse, the graveyard. One of the few good memories she had growing up; she'd shared it with Alex, petting her hair as she went through withdrawal, letting her know she wasn't being touched without her consent but that she wasn't alone either.

The wine steadily disappeared between them, fed into their grief and camaraderie. Nikita hated herself for it, but times like this she was almost glad Alex had suffered as she had. Suffered enough to understand her. Michael, Birkhoff, Ryan, they had normal lives, happy childhoods. For them, all this craziness was a hurricane that had come into their well-ordered worlds and uprooted everything.

For Nikita and Alex, life _was _the hurricane. Nothing was certain, nothing was bolted down. People left, promises were broken, guns jammed. But they'd found each other, a lone fixed point in each other's existence. The eye of the storm.

Finally, Nikita's long hair was gathered up into a barrette and left as a braid. Nikita refilled Alex's cup and passed it back as Alex began to massage her shoulders. Her hands were strong and rough, but capable of great delicacy. Nikita wondered which part of that equation Alex got from her.

"You're not alone anymore, Niki," Alex whispered gently, her hands ghosting down Nikita's arms, releasing tension Nikita had forgotten she was carrying. "You never were."

Nikita loosened herself up, giving herself over to Alex's touch. She virtually melted into Alex's lap, her head resting against Alex's chest, ears hearing the steady endurance of her heartbeat. Those hands that she refused to take any credit for rolled on down to her strong thighs, rubbing them firmly enough to warm the blood. Nikita realized Alex wasn't drinking. Reaching back, she tipped her cup into Alex's lips. Alex drank greedily, some ending up on her chin, and she giggled as Nikita wiped it off for her. Then she wrapped her arms around Nikita like a seatbelt and pulled her just a fraction closer.

"Stay with me tonight." Alex was whispering again. "You shouldn't sleep alone. _I _can't sleep with you alone. Let me take care of you for a change."

Nikita just nodded, giving herself over to the loose twang in her soothed muscles and the dull satisfaction in her wine-heavy head. She held her limbs out to be manipulated as Alex faithfully relived her of her shoes, her socks, her pants, her tanktop, leaving her in the underwear she bought because it was comfortable enough to sleep in. Then Nikita watched as Alex undressed.

Her body was so much more beautiful than it had a right to be—than Nikita could take responsibility for. Those full, lush curves perfectly relieved by the muscles that became visible like squalls on the sea where they tensed and coiled across that amazing body. Alex hesitated as she stepped out of her trousers—the frightened girl Nikita had rescued once more. Then she reached behind her back and undid her bra. Her breasts were _perfect… _Nikita had a hard time not thinking of her like _that. _Alex tugged at the waist of her panties, but left them on. Then she crawled onto the bed beside Nikita and took shelter under the sheets. Nikita followed her in, covering them both with the sky-blue blanket. A little intimate world between them, warm and red as the womb.

"You're so beautiful," Nikita said. "Can you even know how beautiful you are? You've always been pretty—you've always had this strength—but when I look at you now, it's impossible to ignore. You're the sun, Alex. You blind me."

Alex ducked her head in a blush and a grin. "I'm nothing compared to you. I'd _be _nothing if it weren't for you."

"I just gave you a chance. You're the one who took it." Nikita brushed her nose against Alex's. "And I'm so glad you did. You're right. I'm not alone."

"And you never will be."

Nikita reached for Alex, to pull her in close, but Alex chased her hands away and pushed at Nikita until she obligingly allowed herself to be flipped over. "What, what?"

"I'm taking care of you, remember?" Alex said smugly. "That means I'm the big spoon."

"Oooh… Russian princess getting a little big for her britches, huh?"

"I'm not wearing britches." Alex threw a leg over Nikita's hips, her arms over Nikita's chest. If Nikita weren't wearing her skivvies, Alex would be preserving her modesty. "Mmm. There. Just as warm as I remember."

"Just as needy as I remember."

"You love it. Nikita and her pet spy."

"I've never thought of you like that," Nikita protested, slightly wounded. "You're my best friend, Alex."

"Yes, of course, but—you know what I mean. I miss it too. When it was just the two of us. When I was your little студентка. I'd rather be your pet than _Alexandra Udinov, hard-partying heir to the Zetrov empire!" _She chortled at her own accent.

"You can be both."

"I'd rather be yours," Alex repeated softly, and from then on Nikita heard a babbling brook of whispered Russian that she was too tired and drunk to focus on. She relaxed into Alex's grip, wishing it was even tighter, and for once didn't have to sleep with one eye open.

She _could _relax now. She could trust Alex, have faith in Alex, to protect her as she protected Alex. No, to do better. Alex wasn't like her, flawed and broken and ashamed. Alex was perfect. She'd fixed herself in a way Nikita never could, and the finest thing Nikita had ever done was just to help Alex as she saved herself.

Nikita felt the ghost of a kiss caress her parted lips. "I love you, Nikita," Alex said, so softly it would follow Nikita into her dreams.

"I love you too, Alexandra Udinov." She took Alex's hand in hers and moved an arm of hard muscle and soft curves under her head, the most comfortable pillow she could ask for. "My sister."

As she slept, she thought she heard the muffled crying that Alex had loosed back in their first days together, when she was still trying to escape the memory of her horrors. And Nikita felt two damp trails on her back, where Alex's face was pressed worshipfully to her spine. But it was probably just Nikita's warring memories.

After all, why would Alex cry when she had her best friend back?


End file.
